"Wait!" cried some one. "What is this?"
He tore the fluttering garment off the projection and held it up to the light.
"My lady's Injy scarf!"
No one knew who spoke—all recognized it. It was a little Cashmere shawl Lady Kingsland often wore. Another thrilling silence followed; then—
"The Lord be merciful!" gasped a house-maid. "She's been murdered, and we in our beds!"
Sybilla Silver, leaning lightly against the railing, turned authoritatively to Edwards:
"Take your master to his room, Edwards. It is no use of lingering here now; we must wait until morning. Some awful deed has been done, but it may not be my lady murdered."
"How comes her shawl there, then?" asked the old butler. "Why can't she be found in the house?"
"I don't know. It is frightfully mysterious, but nothing more can be done to-night."
"Can't there?" said the butler. "Jackson and Fletcher will go to the village and get the police and search every inch of the park before daylight. The murderer can't be far away."